


Coquet

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 06:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10299218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Legolas sees something he likes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for songsofimladris’ (and several seconds) “Legolas/Lindir” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/158362385615/any-newultra-rare-tolkien-or-trek-ships-i-should). Heads, this follows more of the LotR, especially the book, characterization of Legolas than The Hobbit movies. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Legolas finally spots him, down the end of a long corridor. He’s speaking to one of Lord Elrond’s council members, but by the time Legolas has approached them, the older elf has turned to leave, and the younger is left to spot Legolas with a flicker of surprise. Legolas dips his head in polite greeting and introduces, “I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm. Might I ask your name?”

The elf looks at a loss for words. His plush lips, which sung such beautiful songs at last night’s dinner, are now fixed in a little ‘o’, his bright eyes drawn wide. He’s Elrond’s attendant, Legolas thinks, from the way he stood behind his lord throughout most of the feast, but later in the evening, he joined the minstrels in their music, and Legolas can’t remember when he last heard such a stunning melody. He’s cute, too, in that quaint, simple sort of way, and has a sort of softness that’s rare in the Greenwood. Coming to Imladris, whether with his father’s delegation or merely a message to deliver, always bodes well for Legolas. Elrond’s ‘Homely House’ offers such pure delights, varied in a way the Greenwood hasn’t been for centuries, and this particular elf, Legolas has decided, will be this visit’s treat.

He can tell from the way the elf blushes deeply over both cheeks and nose that there won’t be much seduction required. When the pinkish hue has reached the tips of the elf’s supple ears, he finally manages: “L... Lindir, my prince,” and he ducks then into a full-body bow, so low that his chestnut hair slips past his shoulders and brushes the floor. Of course, he will have heard of Legolas, especially if he does indeed work closely with Elrond. When he straightens again, his flush hasn’t faded. He adds with perhaps a touch of eagerness, “How may I be of service?”

Clearly, this isn’t one of the feral warriors with which Legolas is more, albeit secretly, acquainted. Lindir is wholly _lovely_ , in every sense of the word, and Legolas searches for a more innocent way to get to know him than a customary tug towards the nearest bedroom. Then Legolas spots the delicate braids on either side of Lindir’s soft face and asks, “Would you, perhaps, be available to help with my hair? I have servants to style me so in my own home, but here, I’d heard that you are one of Lord Elrond’s own, and thought, perhaps, that you were responsible for his most envious braids.”

The poor thing looks like he’s going to faint. But he does offer, “Yes, I... often have the pleasure of treating my lord’s hair.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “But, while I am certainly honoured to be asked, I must confess I have little experience beyond the attendance of my lord Elrond, and I surely do not have the skill to... ah...” He doesn’t finish, but trails off, steadily turning redder and now biting his bottom lip as though to prevent himself from saying more. Legolas can already guess what he might’ve meant. Vain or no, Legolas is quite aware that he inherited his father’s looks, and this isn’t the first time he’s made a young servant nervous.

But he sees the way Lindir is subtly eyeing the long, white-blond locks that cascade down his shoulders, and he insists, “Nonsense. If you are good enough for Lord Elrond, then you are more than good enough for me. Now, will you help me?”

Lindir works his bottom lip but eventually concedes, “Yes, my prince,” and bows his head. 

Smiling wide, Legolas reaches out his hand, though Lindir only stares at it in shock, until Legolas drops it and gestures down the hall instead. He can tell he was right to choose the subtle approach with this one. Indeed, Lindir follows him at a respectful distance, two halls down and one flight of stairs up, to the guest chambers he’s been given. When he opens the door to let Lindir inside, he’s sure to close it afterwards. Lindir glances back at the sound, but Legolas is already strolling for the grand bed pressed against the far wall. It’s the comfiest place to sit and the only one that will take two elves at once, but it also serves another purpose. He perches on the end of it, cross-legged, and sweeps all his hair behind him. 

Lindir drifts forward at a more subdued pace and hesitates before climbing onto the bed. When he comes to sit behind Legolas, Legolas hears a sharp intake of breath. The affection in his chest swells; this elf is so unbearably _cute_. His father would have his head for this, but that’s half the fun of travel; there are none of this fragile, gentle kind of beauty in the Greenwood. 

It takes a minute for Lindir to begin, and when Legolas glances over his shoulder, he finds sheer reverence etched across Lindir’s fair features. Then Lindir seems to gather himself and reaches forward, long fingers threading into Legolas’ hair, and he finger-combs it through as he asks, “What would you have me do, my prince?”

A great many things. But Legolas says only, “Do as you will; I will trust your judgment.” 

For a long moment, Lindir only continues to stroke down the long curtain, but eventually, he begins separating strands near the top. Legolas can feel the slight pull, but Lindir is careful not to tug too fast or hard. He’s slow and precise, but Legolas is glad for it—he doesn’t care how long it takes, only that they spend that time _together_ , where he might enjoy the intimacy of the private moment, and Lindir, hopefully, might relax around him. As much as he enjoys the awe in Lindir’s countenance, when the time for _more_ comes, Legolas always prefers a partner to a servant. He can tell that Lindir could be that partner, but it will take some coaxing, some convincing, and enough of a bond to temporarily lay titles aside.

Getting his hair braided—at least, when it isn’t his father sharply jerking in exacting styles—is usually an enjoyable practice. The air of Imladris is sweet and crisp, and the balcony of Legolas’ quarters looks out over the mountain vista, letting in the morning sun. Lindir’s hands are soft and feather-light, nimble and talented—Legolas can tell there won’t be one hair out of place. He wonders, once some time has passed, if he might be able to convince Lindir to sing to him during this, if only at a hum. 

But before the first braid is finished, before it’s been nearly long enough, the door to his quarters opens without so much as a knock. Lindir halts instantly behind him, and Tauriel—the only one with permission to interrupt him so—slips inside.

Her hair is also free, and she asks, of all things, “Forgive me for the intrusion, but I have been asked on a hunt and need my hair pulled back—could you braid it for me?”

There’s a second’s pause where Legolas tries to communicate with his eyes that that was _completely the wrong thing to say_ , but when Tauriel only returns a questioning stare, he says tightly, “I cannot.”

“But you are the best with braids,” Tauriel retorts, seeming to pay no attention to Lindir, who must appear to be doing nothing more than sitting behind him. Perhaps she thinks he was receiving a massage, which wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

He still tells her pointedly, “Tauriel, _not now_ ,” and she finally dons a look of comprehension, glancing behind him. 

Then she bows and says, “Of course, Prince Legolas, my apologies,” and marches right back out his door, shutting it behind her. 

If Lindir were one of the Woodland Realm’s guards, the room might be thick with tension. Instead, when Legolas finally turns around to face him, he only looks confused. To the mortals Legolas has met, such an interruption might have meant nothing, but an elf with the skill of threading hair should be able to do it just as easily on themselves as another. Indeed, Legolas usually does braid his own hair, and, on occasion, those of his traveling companions. 

He could deny such talent to Lindir, but instead he sees the trust on Lindir’s sweet face, unblemished by the troubles beyond Imladris’ peace. With a little sigh, Legolas lifts a hand to cup Lindir’s cheek, his thumb deftly stroking the soft skin, and while Lindir’s eyes widen, Legolas leans forward to press their lips together.

He gives only a chaste, tender kiss, then withdraws. Legolas murmurs, “Forgive me, Lindir. I merely wished to get you alone.”

Lindir’s brows knit together, and he asks with genuine confusion, “Why?”

“Because I think you are cute,” Legolas replies, adding another kiss to Lindir’s cheek. Lindir’s eyes have only widened further.

Lindir looks, once again, at a complete loss for words. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before finally squeaking, “ _Me_?”

“You.”

“You... _you_ think _I_ am cute?”

“Yes.” Legolas punctuates his point with yet another kiss, this time to the side of Lindir’s lips, though Lindir seems too frozen with surprise to respond. As he shifts his thumb to draw along Lindir’s bottom lip, he adds, “And your song spoke to me, and I enjoy the peace of you. If you will have me, I—”

But Legolas doesn’t get to finish, because suddenly Lindir is right in his lap, one hand to either side of his face, a warm mouth tight against his and closed lashes tickling his cheeks. He turns his face to better fit their noses, reaches his other hand around Lindir’s waist, and enjoys the ride. He may have miscalculated Lindir’s innocence. Lindir’s tongue swipes over his lips, but before he can open for it, Lindir withdraws and huskily begs, “Please, my lord, have all of me you like!” and descends on him once more.


End file.
